terminal
by finaljoy
Summary: He'd seen people die before. That happened when you were a soldier, an assassin. But now she's dying and he can't stop it, can't change it, can hardly deal with it. But he has to, for her sake.
1. it's not even real

**_AN ASDFJKL; I JUST HAVE A LOT OF CLINTASHA FEELS AND THEY MUST BE UNLEASHED. _  
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**_Originally, this was going to be a oneshot, but then I realized it would have been a behemoth and no one likes reading ridiculously long chapters, so I've broken it up. Hopefully I'll be able to update super quickish so it doesn't interfere with my other stories (hopefully). Otherwise, just enjoy!  
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**_Everything in parentheses are song titles by Regina Spektor.  
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**denial (jessica)**

Clint's mouth was dry as he waited outside. His leg was jittery, going up down up down faster than the club beat to the song playing over the speaker system in the waiting room. He glanced behind him for about the dozenth time in the last couple of minutes, then turned back around before he could identify the look on Natasha's face.

It wasn't real yet. He couldn't really believe it, because it just..._didn't happen_. Not to them. He and Natasha weren't superheroes but dammit, they weren't _normal people_. She had once been an important part of the KGB, then turned to work for the good of the United States of America, he had grown up in a freakin' circus and turned out to be the best damn sharpshooter SHIELD had seen in a long time. They weren't normal.

_ So why the hell is Natasha in there, like she's some average person made of glass?_ he thought to himself, chewing his cheek and turning his gaze to his hands. They were scarred and worn, but in the most comforting way. They said that he had made mistakes, but that he had learned from them and could do a whole hell of a lot. They just couldn't fix Natasha.

A ripple of anger at himself moved through Clint, because he was being ridiculous. He had had three whole days to adjust, seventy-two hours and a whole lot of down time to get it all through his head, but it wasn't coming. At one point a nurse had come by, all gentle smiles and easy understanding.

"Is she...are you her boyfriend?" She had raised her eyebrows in a way that was both understanding, unsure and questioning, the kind of look you only got when you were speaking to teachers, grandmothers and people in the medical field that didn't have hearts of ice. She had perched on one of the thin armrests beside him, like she wanted something more familiar than standing but didn't have time to sit all the way. Her name tag said 'Joyce', a name that suited her soft features and blonde wavy hair.

"Uh, yeah, I am," he said, because that was so much easier than saying no and trying to explain what their relationship really was. He knew he'd just mess it up. Natasha had always been the one good with the words.

The woman nodded, looking past him through the glass at Natasha. He kept himself facing forwards, eyes on his knees.

"How are you handling it?"

"I'm not, really. I've had a few days for it to sink in, but it's just...bouncing off." Clint was a little impressed that his voice didn't sound like it was being squashed flat, considering how little room he felt between his vocal cords and the lump in his throat.

"That's pretty common. It falls under the steps of grieving . Most people think that only happens after a person dies, but it can occur at any moment, for anything. Denial is first, then you have anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance."

Clint nodded again. He'd heard it all before, each SHIELD agent heard it at least once while in training, because shit happened in the field and people didn't always come back. It was nice to hear from Joyce's mouth, though. She actually meant it to help, and not as a cold warning to not get too attached.

"You can never really say how long it's going to take a person to go through each stage, or even what makes them go through it. It could be over their own death, or that of a friend's, or some other loss, and it lasts for a few minutes or even years. I knew a woman who refused to accept the fact that her husband was cheating on her for months, and then when it came to a head, she went through the last four steps in less than a day and left him."

"Now _that's_ a woman I think I could get along with," Clint laughed. His voice sounded like sandpaper and sadness.

Joyce smiled, shrugging.

"She was kind of a kick in the pants." She glanced at her watch, then stood up. "I've got to go, but if you need anything, a bit of conversation, some reassurance, a muffin or even a hug, I'm at the help desk."

He nodded, smiling at her.

"Thanks. I'll remember that."

She smiled back, gave a little nod and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, letting it slide off as she walked away.

Clint sat there a moment, then put his head in his hands.

A few minutes later the door clicked open, and he looked around, tense and hopeful.

"Mister Barton?" a tall man with a dark moustache asked. Clint stood up, running a hand through his hair.

"Can I...can I talk to her now?"

"...Yes. Just...be considerate."

He nodded and walked past the man, eyes on Natasha, even though it hurt.

She looked so, so tired. Dark bags were under her eyes, and she looked sickeningly pale, not a hint of pink in her skin. Even her bright red hair looked dull. Natasha wasn't looking at him as he walked in, which didn't worry him at first. Her eyes were on something on the other side of her window, watching it with little interest. After a moment she turned them to him, and he wanted to turn around and walk right back out at the sight of how dead she looked inside.

_This isn't Natasha. This is someone else, it's a mistake, she's somewhere else with a busted arm or rib or something and that's why she's here, not because of—_

"Hi Clint," she said after a moment, voice raspy. His mouth twitched in a smile, more out of habit than anything.

"Hey, Tasha. You look great in that gown."

"Thanks. Cancer and tacky blue daisies do wonders for a girl."

Clint swallowed, trying not to feel sick.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, because you had to ask it at some point and now was that point and he thought he might turn around and run if he didn't say something to keep himself in place. He didn't even like hospitals in the first place, they made his skin crawl. Now, when it was for Natasha's—now it was just worse.

"Tired," she said, "tired and like I want to puke."

He nodded, looked around. A fruit basket was sitting beside her bed, tacky and looking like it had been picked up from Wal-Mart the day before. It had been opened, but otherwise untouched.

"If you'll excuse me," the doctor said, making Clint start and look back at him. He had forgotten the man was even there, "I'll just step out. Other patients to attend to, and...you should be allowed to talk by yourselves."

He said this while looking mostly at Natasha, but he gave a firm nod to Clint, which he returned. The door sounded like bones breaking when it closed.

Clint stood there in the middle of the room for a second, awkward, unsure what to do. It felt like he was in a cage, one of the frustrated lions that he had grown up with, waiting to have the whip cracked so he could jump through a hoop.

"You gonna stand there?" she asked, and Clint just looked at her, because he didn't have an answer. It felt like he had been punched in the stomach when he saw that her eyes were suddenly red, and tears were about to flow over.

"Clint, please, say something to me."

"I can't," he whispered, wanting to go over there and touch her face, make himself believe that all of this is real, all of it is happening, and he can't just wake up and brush it off.

"_Clint_," she said, voice breaking, "I don't wanna die."

He hadn't ever heard her break like this. He'd seen her cry a handful of times, but that was because she was either having a bone being set or relocated, or she was faking it. She had been great at it, knew how to make her jaw tremble as though she were scared to say the words, her eyebrows furrow just right, her voice even shake. Natasha had been so good at pretending to cry, now it was real and it looked fake.

That's how he knew that she wasn't acting, though. Natasha Romanoff didn't half ass anything.

He walked over to her, half ran, really, and threw his arms around her neck. She gave a gaspy sob and held on to him like she was tipping, like the whole world had been set on its hinges and could flip either way but he was safe, he was the only thing firm, the only thing that would keep her anchored. The thought was so hilarious to Clint it hurt, because he was doing good to just keep breathing.

He closed his eyes, told himself not to think about it.

_ Focus on her hair,_ he told himself, over and over. _Think about how it feels as you hold her head, about how gorgeous it is in the sunlight, what it smells like after she's just taken a shower._

After a while, she pulled away, wiping her face with a hand. He looked away at this, because she seemed far too human and he didn't like the look of the IV in her wrist.

"Who...who knows?" she asked, sounding normal again. Clint looked back, relieved that the only signs of crying left were slightly red eyes and nose.

"Not many. Fury, Agent Hill...everyone else thinks that you were poisoned."

She smiled, shrugging.

"That's good. Less fruit baskets for me to receive then feed you."

Clint grinned back at her, trying to shove the image of her collapsing from his head. He didn't know how he hadn't seen it earlier. Hawk's eyes? What a load of shit. He hadn't seen her hands shaking, or the way she'd winced as she'd gotten off the plane, or how her legs trembled. Clint hadn't even seen her fall, just sensed something was off in his periphery and turned, expecting some projectile, only to see Natasha half way to the ground.

They were silent for a while, alternately staring at each other and looking at everything but the other person in the room.

"How much longer they gonna keep you in here?" he asked, eyes on the curtain that was supposed to wrap around her bed.

"Not much longer. I think I get out tomorrow. Did...anyone else come to visit me?"

"No. I was sort of their ambassador."

"Thank you, Clint."

"For what?" he asked, finally turning to look at her. What was she thanking him for? He had had one job, and that was to keep her, his partner, safe. One damn thing to do, and he hadn't done it. She should be trying to kick in his knee caps, not thanking him.

Some people, people who didn't know her at all might have said that this could be her revenge. Her and that stupid psychological warfare, make him feel like crap for having failed her. But Clint knew better. Natasha wouldn't have done that, not to him, not to anyone. She had a heart.

Natasha shrugged, mouth open as though about to say something. Nothing came out.

He nodded, put his hands in his pockets.

"Alright. Alright. I'll...I guess I'll see you later, then." Clint leaned over and picked an apple from the basket, a bright gala that promised that somewhere else in the world, good things were happening. He took a bite from it, forced himself to smile, and waved at her.

Natasha waved back, looking even more tired and sad than when he had walked in.


	2. how could one be so irate?

**_AN You know what's super funny about this chapter? I had it ready the entire time. I HAD IT WRITTEN AND READY FOR READING WHEN I FIRST PUBLISHED THE STORY AND YET I STILL DIDN'T UPDATE AS SOON AS I PLANNED. _**

**____****This chapter was so, so odd to write because there came a point when I really could not think of another way to write 'DAMMIT I'M MAD' to keep in the theme of the theme of the story. And I'm not especially good at/don't really like writing people being so blindly angry, so there's that.  
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**____****Regardless, I hope you enjoy.**  


**anger (chemo limo)**

Natasha had been released from the hospital for two days now, and yet he still refused to see her. He knew that if he did, the disconnected calm he had felt during their last meeting would vanish and a whole lot of things would end up broken.

But he had to go see her. It was some sick longing in him, like the urge to keep twisting a loose tooth or pick away a scab, even though it hurt. He wanted to see her, wanted to drink in her every image and scent and sound and feel, but he didn't want to see the shade of her, vague and dull as compared to the fiery, wonderful creature she had been before.

Clint slammed his hand into the top of his counter, hand throbbing dully. This was ridiculous, why was he hesitating? Rage at the whole situation was bubbling inside of him, because this wasn't fair. Natasha had done more for the world than anyone else he'd known, even if you looked only at the fact that she had switched over from the Russian to the American side, and then displayed all of the secrets that had endangered countries and governments all over the world. But she had gone on, doing secret ops that saved so many people, organizations and lives that Clint had lost count. Why was _she _the one to have cancer, and for it to have spread on and on and freakin' on until it was far too late? Why not someone else, someone that people wouldn't have really missed?

He pushed himself up and grabbed his jacket, stomping out of his apartment. He had to see her, or else he wouldn't be able to think straight, because the guilt and anger and fear and confusion would swirl and around and around until he thought he'd burn himself out.

Her apartment was all the way across the city, but he was glad. Between the long walk to the subway station and the even longer ride to her neighborhood, he had a chance to burn some of that anger out. Not much, but some.

On the way there, he found he couldn't stand still. His hands fidgeted and he kept looking around and bouncing in place. Clint knew he was attracting looks, but it was either that or start breaking something, and that sure as hell wouldn't help, even though it might make him feel a bit better.

He found himself stomping up the steps to her apartment what felt like a few moments later, then caught himself. Clint took a breath, then calmly walked up, found her door. To his own surprise, it didn't even sound like pounding when he knocked on her door.

There was a pause, then the barest moment of feet walking closer to the door and then it opened. Natasha's face went from guarded and curious to surprised to guarded and impassive and slightly irritated in about a second. He gave her a smile, an awkward nod, waiting for her to let him in or turn him away.

She looked better than she had in the hospital, which was a relief. There was some more color in her cheeks, and she had tied her hair up in a scarf, rather reminiscent of the fifties. Natasha had always liked the thought of America then, when the economy was still good and all people wanted to do was have babies and paint pictures of happy people doing ordinary, amazingly mundane things in the high after winning yet another world war.

The hard sound of his name jerked him out of this reverie, and he blinked at her.

"Uhm, _hi_," he said, stalling to think of something to say. He had spent so long being pissed on the way over here that he had no idea what he had planned on actually doing once he reached her. "Feeling...feeling any better?"

"Like a champion. What do you want?"

"I wanted to say_..._"

_ That I miss you, that I'm so, so sorry that I didn't see this, that you don't deserve it, you don't deserve any of it, that I would rather take this for you, that I'm so angry at all that's happening I'm afraid of what I'll do, that I just need to see your smile, back when you were confident and didn't have cancer._

"Say, uh, sorry. I didn't mean to...bail out on you like that. I should've...should've come by sooner."

"You bet your ass," she said, but it was still flat, still unamused, still not angry, still nothing. And that was the worst thing she could give him, nothing, like she didn't care about or trust him enough to show him what she was feeling.

"Tasha, please, I—I'm having a tough time of it, too."

She looked at him a moment, eyes scanning his entire body as if looking for the barest trace of insincerity in the form of a nervous tick or pocketed hands of whatever.

Natasha stepped back, apparently finding him not guilty of anything.

Clint let out the barest sigh of relief as he walked in, glad to at least have managed the first hurdle. Who knew how many there were left.

He stood there awkwardly in the entry way, glancing around. It looked like she had begun some deep cleaning, because the place looked painfully bare of any familiar dust or stray magazine or something. Clint didn't really trust clean living quarters. It was like a giant statement by the owner that they weren't comfortable enough with where they were to let a little bit of dust collect, or that they had something to hide and were trying to make it appear perfect to deflect suspicion, or that they had insomnia and were _far _too anal about cleanliness to be any sort of likeable person.

"So, what've you been doing?" Natasha asked, walking past him.

"Trying not to break...everything," he said vaguely, still examining every part of the room. Natasha, though she didn't often stay in New York, made sure that her apartment always felt like some sort of home when she came back. There were photos that gave nothing of her personal life away, small figurines that were thin but sturdy and completely tasteful, black and white furniture that was elegant and simplistic. Completely Natasha. But at the same time, things were missing. It was like she was slowly skimming things away from her life, to make it a little bit easier when her things were divvied up after she died.

Clint choked at little when he realized what he had thought, because this was about the first time he put it into words.

"You?" he asked, voice thick.

"Just been...trying to stay busy. Cleaning, taking walks, actually talking to the neighbors..."

"How friendly of you. Did they nearly have a heart attack when the aloof woman from down the hall actually returned their hellos?" he asked, and she looked at him. Normally it would have held a sarcastic smile, but there was something hard and unsure in this look, like she couldn't really believe what he had said. He frowned mentally, because he hadn't thought he had said anything strange, but apparently she saw things differently.

There was another pause, of which there were just too damn _many,_ and he searched frantically for another topic. She spoke first, though.

"Clint, what're you doing here?"

"I came to talk."

"About what, because it's certainly not happening and I don't have time to waste."

He swallowed when he heard her words_. Didn't have time to waste._ She was reminding him yet again that soon, she would be just a corpse and he would have failed her yet again, and—

"I'm supposed to be meeting someone for lunch, and I still have things to do," she continued, and he blinked, irritation bubbling up at the thought. Who was she meeting for lunch, who would take all that time away from her? Clearly not someone important, because she hadn't said a name and there was no chance in hell that SHIELD would put her back on duty. Wasn't there something else she could be doing, like...Clint didn't know what else, but something.

"Right. I'll, uhm, try to make it quick, then."

He bit his lip, thinking, thinking.

"Are we...okay?"

"Yeah," she said, moving towards the kitchen. He looked at her over the bar, not even bothering to let belief be an option.

"Because you sure don't look okay."

"Clint, _I'm dying!_" she snapped, then straightened, fear and anger all being sucked back in under the mask. He wanted to shake her and say that yes, she needed to yell, she needed to break down, she needed to show that she did care! He wouldn't be able to live with himself if she died with everyone thinking she was still the cold bitchy spy that used to be the KGB's finest.

"I'm sorry, Nat," he said softly, feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach.

"For what?" she asked, voice cold.

"For letting this happen."

"What do you mean, you_ let_ this happen?"

"I should have...I should have watched out for you more, should have known, should have done something. And now...it's too late."

"You couldn't have done anything, Clint. You can't just spot cancer and magic it away, there are procedures, messy ones, expensive ones..." She looked away, teeth clenched.

"So you're not gonna bother with chemo or surgery or anything?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"It's spread too far. At first it was totally benign, then it hit my blood stream and spread...everywhere. The doctors say I have about six months to live."

"_What?!"_ he demanded, "You have only six freakin' months to live? Are you—"

He cut himself off, chewing his cheek to keep from shouting.

"Clint, this happens. You can't—"

"Can't what, Natasha? Can't do the decent thing and be upset that my partner is dying, or that this whole situation sucks like shit and that I'm bothered by it, or that I can't act like I have emotions when you clearly can't?"

The last words tasted awful, but the moment after he had spoken them Clint wished he could have swallowed them, rather than let them out.

She stared at him, then shook her head.

"So this is my fault?"

"Yes, no, I—dammit, I dunno. I just—if you actually showed something, maybe I—"

"Maybe this wouldn't be so awful? Because that's a lie, and you know it, Clint! I would still have cancer, I would still be dead in a few months, and you would still be alone, again! You can't blame me, you can't blame you, you can't blame anyone!"

He glared at her, so angry that he could break her everything, her body, her soul, her heart, but he couldn't. He just didn't have the power to do something so terrible. He hated himself because he was still trying.

"Well sue me for trying, Natasha. Blaming people is the human thing to do!"

"No, that's the coward's thing to do! You can't face up to the fact that there is no bad guy here, nothing to shoot and kill so you can go home afterwards and feel good about yourself. I think you've forgotten what it's like to be a normal person."

"I've forgotten? I think _you're_ the one who's forgotten what we are, Natasha. We're not normal. We can do things no one else can, and we don't _need _machines or radiation or magic or whatever to get it done! We just do it, because we're humans that—"

"Yes, Clint, we're human! That's what I'm saying, we are just _people_. People die, that's what we do! Never have I let that fact escape me. I think you've chosen to lose a few details after becoming SHIELD's ace sharpshooter." He shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. She was just barely cracking, of course she was, just when he had completely fallen apart.

"Hell, you are so busy spending time thinking that we are perfect human beings that you've begun to think that just because we can do something special, it makes everyone else's fault when something bad happens! Admit it, when you found out, you thought 'this can't happen to us', because _we_ don't get normal things like cancer!"

He looked away, because she was right and he hated it. He could feel her shake her head, just barely see it in his periphery, but it felt like a kick, a disgusted thing that slammed him to the ground. He hadn't fought with her like this in ages, had forgotten how her logic and low, hard voice could climb inside his skull and shoot him full of holes. It made him feel sick.

What was worse was his anger, boiling up and up and threatening to choke him.

"What, don't have anything else to say?" he asked, voice hard as possible without actually sounding upset.

"No, I'm just wondering if it's even worth it. Was it worth it, Clint? To come all the way over here and yell at me and let out a bit of your anger that you never let anyone else see? To ruin what little I have left?"

Her voice was tired, and she leaned against the counter, looking...less than she normally did, like there was suddenly less of her left to give.

"Did you come here because you actually wanted to see me or say something, or just to ease your own conscience?"

The question felt like a corpse hanging in the air between them, and he looked at her, suddenly unable to believe that she would dare go that far, like she thought he was just some mindless, heartless monster that was obligated by duty to do something.

"That make you feel any better?" he countered, walking around to bar to look at her, face to face, with nothing to hide behind. "That make you feel like you've got a bit of power left, like you haven't been stripped of everything? I've gotta admit, I'm a little impressed, Natasha. Your words used to have a little bit more _sting_."

He turned to walk away, upset that he had wasted so much time and energy on a woman that was determined to fight. Before he even went a step, he sensed something flying towards his right ear.

Clint instinctively ducked so that the blow just barely nicked him, then whirled, facing her. To his utter shock, she had thrown a coffee mug at him, which had shattered and sent splinters all over the kitchen. Natasha wasn't finished, as she had begun to pull back her elbow for another blow. He dodged and grabbed her arm, twisting it and shoving her away. A small part of him whispered that this was Natasha and that she would never lash out at him in normal circumstances, and that she was probably doing this out of frustration at her inability to do anything, and that he should really just stay on the defensive until she burned herself out, but another part said that he was _angry_. That he was so angry that he could hardly think straight and that what he really wanted was to try and beat the living day lights out of something, just so he could get it off of his chest, because clearly speaking wasn't doing the job.

In the end, Clint gave her a solid kick. Natasha deflected it, but he could tell instantly that it had still taken its toll. She grit her teeth and whirled, slinging out one of her own, again to his head, but he caught it and tried to slam his elbow down on it. Natasha slipped out of his grasp and lunged in to put him into some sort of hold, probably something to make him black out, but he ducked under her effortlessly moving past the blow. Clint grabbed her waist and slammed her into the counter, arm pressed heavily into her neck.

Natasha gasped and gagged, arm working to push him off, hand pressed against his face. He ignored it, until she managed to chop him in the throat, which made him choke and stagger back. She snapped out two blows which he managed to block, and then Clint punched her in the face. Before he had even pulled away, Natasha kneed him in the thigh, then kicked him in the jaw. Clint stumbled backwards drunkenly, blinking heavily and coughing out "_Damn_, Natasha..."

The blow had slammed his jaw shut, and though it thankfully didn't catch his tongue, it certainly made him see stars. Once he could see clearly, he realized that Natasha had her hands pressed to her face in an attempt to stop the blood dripping from her nose. When she saw him straighten, she dropped into another fighting stance, eyes hard and dark.

"You gonna hit me again?" he grunted, ears ringing faintly. Absolute shame was starting to mix with the anger, but not enough to quell it. He couldn't believe that he had responded so roughly to her attack, had held nothing back. But then the rough, still irate part of him pointed out that she hadn't really been holding back either.

Clint knew that this should have been very alarming by itself, but all he could manage was a dull ripple of recognition. Any more emotion packed into him and he very well might burst.

The fact was Clint could never match her in hand to hand combat, ever. They had drawn only twice and even then he suspected that she hadn't given it her all. Now her sides were heaving and from the way she had slipped into a stance that suggested she would focus more on her kicks rather than anything with her arms told him that she didn't feel at all confident in knocking him down in one blow. In fact, a kick like the one she had given him earlier should have sent him flying backwards, but as it was, his feet had barely even left the ground. Apparently her illness was taking more out of her than she wanted to admit.

Still, that didn't change the fact that he was still absolutely furious with her for striking out at him, when she knew so plainly that he wouldn't be able to hold back if she offered a fight, and furious with himself that he couldn't even hold himself together when hell started breaking loose.

Her jaw was clenched as she stood stiff, unsure. She watched him as he took a breath, trying to pull some facsimile of himself back together before hesitantly taking a step. They both waited a moment as the blood slid a little farther down her chin, dripped onto the floor, then Clint forced himself to raise a hand, relaxed and palm open. Natasha's eyes flicked from his hand to his face, trying to guess his intent. He slowly reached for her face, pausing to see if she would move, then taking hold of it and examining her nose.

"It's not broken," he said after a moment, which she scoffed at and reached behind her roughly, carelessly. A beat later she had a hand towel in her fist, and was pressing it against her face.

"You're probably not going to get that blood out," he said flatly, making her purse her lips from behind the towel, he could just tell. She wiped off the blood on her chin, pointedly shifting her eyes away.

"It doesn't matter, I can bleach it."

"That's gonna wreck the coloring."

"Then I'll have a white towel!" she snapped, eyes still down on the floor somewhere. He pressed his lips together, not trusting himself to speak again. After a moment, she let out a soft curse in Russian.

"I'm not supposed to let myself bleed," she said in explanation. "Apparently I don't have many platelets, so it's a little tougher for my blood to clot."

Clint nodded and backed away, glanced around the kitchen. He picked up a tiny bottle from her counter considering it briefly. He put it into her hand roughly, and walked past her, grunting "Put it on the spot that's bleeding. It'll be a bitch but the blood will stop."

"I'm sorry, Natasha," he said as he reached the door, pulled it open and then nearly slammed it shut.

Once outside, Clint kicked her door. It shook worryingly and he nearly broke a toe, but the door didn't give way, and his hurt didn't give way. Inside he imagined Natasha jumping at the sudden noise, pressing the towel to her nose and contemplating the bottle of black pepper he had given her. A part of him felt bad at the thought of her trying to get the pepper into her nose to keep the blood from flowing, and he knew that he really should have stuck around to help her. But he hadn't trusted himself with her, not when they were so vulnerable, so close, so absolutely volatile.

Clint sighed and pressed his forehead into her door, the inferno that had been his anger having burned into little more than ash.


	3. please trade the world for one soul

_**AN Ugh, I've had this chapter hanging around for forever, and I just haven't gotten around to editing it :P But, ohmygoodness thank you for the reviews! They truly touched my heart, until I was flailing around like an idiot.**_

_**I like this chapter, because of the scenes it contains and some of the thought processes, but it was a little bit difficult to imbue the chapter with Clint in a bargaining mentality, though I can picture him in one no problem. Oh well, that's how it goes.**_

**bargaining (the prayer of françois villon)**

It took about a day to pass before Clint's anger was dead and there was only shame to take its place. He knew that he would have to see Natasha again, would have to speak to her, but he was afraid of what might happen. What was the likelihood of her forgiving him? She wasn't exactly the advocate of forgive and forget, more pretend to forget, then come back years later and cash in with either pain or a favor.

He had spent the last few days lounging around his apartment, unable to get the images out of his head, the way the blood falling from her nose had been brighter and yet somehow more sickly than the color of her hair, the hard line her mouth made when he spoke, the way the white shirt she had been wearing had managed to bring out the small amounts of pink in her cheeks. The flat sound of her voice when she said she only had six more months to live.

No matter what he did, he kept thinking about how little time there was left, how much ground he would have to make up to use every second remaining. Clint found himself begging in his head for a number of things, for time, for strength, for something to make him feel okay as Natasha slowly withered away inside. With whom, he wasn't sure. God, Natasha, himself, it varied from day to day, from request to request. Clint just knew that he was asking for something that he didn't really have.

_You need to make up with her,_ he kept thinking to himself, and he would manage to chastise himself so far as to put on his coat, grab his keys or pick up the phone, but then he'd stop. He couldn't face her, not after shouting at her over something she couldn't control and then nearly breaking her nose. But he had to.

_Just pick up the phone, the worst she can do is hang up, just pick it up, put in her number. It can't be too awful, you can apologize and possibly make it up to her. Think of it this way—if you call her, you might be able to make her change her mind and then she'll forgive you. Or she'll still be pissed and say she never wants to talk to you again, but it'll still be a weight off your shoulders._

It was just about the shittiest bargain he had ever made (though not with himself), but Clint took it anyways.

Fueled by nerves and self reproach, he grabbed up his phone and punched in her number. He was sitting on his couch, leg bouncing up and down and up and down and up and down—

"Hello?"

Her voice was tired, dull and not exactly happy. Clint swallowed, glancing out the dark window to look at the streetlights.

"Hi, uhm, Natasha, I just wanted to—wait, why're you up this late_?_" he suddenly demanded, glancing over at his clock and realizing it was about two in the morning. Embarrassment prickled over his skin, because he hadn't even noticed the time passing, but she didn't exactly sound like she had been in the midst of sleep when she picked up.

"Cleaning," she said, voice devoid of emotion. He furrowed his brow.

"Natasha, I don't really think there's much left to clean in there."

"There's always something," she sighed, and he could just imagine her leaning back, relaxing a little when she was sure he didn't want to fight.

"So…how did the pepper work out," he asked awkwardly, shifting in his seat.

"You were right. It hurt like a bitch. But it also made the blood stop, so that's something."

"I'm sorry Natasha," he whispered, all of the tension draining out of him. "I never should have just left, I shouldn't have shouted, I just—it's tough. And I know that's not exactly an excuse, but I've never dealt with something like this before, and Tasha…I don't know what to do."

The last words were a surrender, an apology and a confession, all in one. Clint hated admitting that he didn't know what his next step was, what his next act was supposed to be, but he had to say it.

Natasha was quiet for a while, thinking.

"I don't know what to do, either," she told him, words just as soft as his had been. "Other than live each day one at a time, try to figure out how to fill each moment. It's kind of weird, you know? I mean, I can't make any plans for the long term, can't do my job because I'm sick, or anything. I can't even say my goodbyes like normal people do, go around to all of my family and friends, because I don't _have_ any."

"There's that word again," he said, a sad laugh in his voice. "'Normal'. Who even decides what's normal, anyways? What dictates it?"

"I don't think any one person chooses," she said. "I think it's just something you just sort of realize after watching people long enough."

"Then I wouldn't say you're abnormal."

"How's that?"

"You have friends. Maybe even family, if we stretch it. I mean, you can't exactly save the world from a very hostile alien invasion without making a few bonds with the people who helped you."

Natasha gave a little chuckle, probably shaking her head.

"Yeah, okay. I don't think I'm about to have movie nights with Stark, or go on shopping trips with Doctor Banner."

"I would actually love to see that," Clint laughed, then they both fell silent. The timer in his head that was counting down, down, down was still going, but it was quieter, less insistent now that he was speaking to Natasha.

"So…it's getting kind of late," he began, not wanting to hang up, but he _had _called her in the middle of the night. "I just wanted to check in and say…I'm sorry."

The words didn't seem adequate now that he'd said them, because they didn't really encompass all that he was feeling, all that he was thinking.

_Natasha, I am so, so sorry, I don't even know where to begin. It's just I don't know what I'm going to do without you, I don't even want to think about it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've just checked out these last few days, and I should really just be helping you because you're dying and this must be so much harder for you because you can't do anything and I just want to hold you and tell you lies like it's going to be alright—_

"I've been so out of line lately, and I just…I'm sorry."

There was a pause, like Natasha was absorbing all that he'd said, or rather, hadn't been able to say, processing it to respond properly.

"It's alright, Clint," she said, voice so, so soft, like it was _her _job to reassure him, make him feel like everything was okay. "I guess…I'll see you later, then."

"Yeah. Uhm, how about tomorrow? Over lunch, I mean."

"Lunch?" she asked, sounding surprised. Clint switched the phone to his other hand, shrugging self consciously. They had eaten together dozens of times, from quick throw together meals that came from a can to expensive courses from high end restaurants, but never before had either asked the other. It just sort of happened, they would be walking somewhere and she would tell him she was going to a food stand, or he saying he wanted a certain type of food and they would adjust their course without any further conversation on the matter. Sometimes when they were undercover they would even go out to eat, pretending to be cousins or business associates or even husband and wife. Now, though, when they were just Clint and Natasha, it felt formal and stuffy, like he was suddenly drowning in customs they had never adhered to.

"What would we be eating?" Natasha asked, a legitimate question. Whereas other people would be flirting by now, playing hard to get, Natasha was being literal. If they weren't on a mission and she was allowed to be picky, she wouldn't go eat somewhere if she didn't like the food, with little exception on who was asking.

"Anything you want," he answered, hope bubbling in his chest. He would trade all of his preferences of food for a lunch with her, where nothing was expected, where he could just laugh and talk and be with her. He would trade everything in the world for a bit of time.

"Diner food," she said immediately, and he laughed.

"No, really, I mean it. I want some good old fashioned American food. Handmade burgers and fresh cut fries. I have been eating soulless takeout from Chinese or Mexican places when I'm by myself, and then eating at French or Italian places when I'm with others for over two weeks. I want something real."

"I can do that," Clint said, relieved to have grabbed this little afternoon with her. He heard her smile through the phone, happy and not hiding anything for once.

"Alright, then. I guess I'll be seeing you," she said, sounding a little shy.

"Yeah, definitely. I'll meet you outside of Tiger Lily's at eleven forty-five, right?" he asked, naming the small flower shop that was their standard meeting place, as it was the midway point between their apartments on the subway route.

"Yes, I'll be there." Clint nodded even though she couldn't see him, smiling. He loved the way she said it, like she realized it was more than a promise, but a gift from both herself and time.

"Okay. Now go get some sleep. I don't want you falling into your burger."

"Same to you," she laughed, then gave a goodbye. He gave a wry smile, thinking that he would hand away all the sleep in the world in trade for more time with her.

"Goodbye, Nat," he whispered, like he thought the quieter he said it, less likely it was to be the last thing he said to her.

He put down the phone, then spread out over the couch. Exhaustion was suddenly flooding through him, and Clint knew he would never make it to his bed. His eyes were already shut, and all he could hear was her voice, happy and relieved that things were okay between them again.

When he woke up, Clint's eyes felt gritty and his neck hurt, but his soul felt fine, which was the only thing that really mattered, he supposed. He glanced at the clock, saw that it was almost ten. He pushed himself up, stumbled to the bathroom.

Clint sleep walked through getting ready, mind on his lunch with Natasha. By the time he left his apartment, he was ever so slightly panicking over the fact that he had such a finite amount of time left with her. Clint could hardly believe how little a few months seemed, now that he knew there really wasn't anything left on the other side of it. Even though he knew it was idiotic, he found himself desperately trying to find some way to buy more time, to bargain away anything that would get the two of them something a bit better.

The train ride to the stop near Tiger Lily's was short and devoid of practically anything, probably because Clint was still in a stupor from a poor night's sleep. He stood outside the little shop anxiously, continually glancing at his watch. He knew Natasha would come at least five minutes early, which was why he made sure to be there with at least eight to spare.

Sure enough, five minutes before the arranged time he saw her confidently striding into view, beautiful red hair an inferno with the sun and breeze whipping it into a frenzy. She smiled at him, earning a wave in return.

"Get any sleep?" he asked in way of greeting, and she shrugged. The turquoise jacket she was wearing was deep and sultry and somehow brought back a bit of the energy she had had before the cancer. He immediately decided that the jacket was just about his favorite among all of the clothes she owned.

"A bit," she said, squinting at him in the sunlight. Instinctively he reached up to brush away some of the hair from her face, but half way through he noticed how she ever so slightly leaned back, as though not wanting to be touched by him. Clint bit his cheek and finished the action.

Even if he did somehow manage to buy all the time left in the world, he had the distinct feeling that it would mean nothing if he couldn't return things to the way they had been, completely and truly.

"Shall we go?" he asked, not acknowledging what had just happened. Natasha nodded, taking his lead and staying silent on the matter. Together they walked down the sidewalk, headed towards a small diner placed a few blocks away.

As they walked, people swirled around them, totally oblivious to who they were. It was the strangest thing, how two people could be so absolutely extraordinary, and yet be regarded as nothing more than brick wall by others. Of course he had felt this while on missions, when he and Natasha were dropped in the middle of radically different countries, where getting the language and culture down pat was imperative to the success of whatever they were trying to achieve, but it was different here in New York, somehow.

For days their faces had been plastered to the tv screens and the lips of radio newscasters after the attack on New York, until Clint had become sick of his own face. Everywhere he went, people were talking about the Avengers, properly identified by Tony not long after the whole thing. As he was the only identifiable member of their group (aside from Banner, who had immediately gone to ground for fear that the Hulkbusters would resurface), it had been his duty to issue the official statements forced into his hand by SHIELD, which made a point of avoiding mentioning both Clint and Natasha's names. Tony actually stuck to the cards, for one, probably out of the fear that they might personally go hunt him down for blowing their cover. Still, Clint kept expecting someone to point at him and gasp out something like '_There he is, Hawkguy, he helped save us!'_ and then he would either have to bluff his way out of it, or run like hell. But that never happened, people shuffled past him as usual, not making eye contact, not apologizing for bumping into him as they walked by. When no one really cared about you, especially what you looked like on the surface, Clint supposed that it was rather easy to be reminded of just how different you were at the core.

He glanced at Natasha, half wanting to share his thoughts, but at just one look at her face, he could tell she was enjoying being just another person. There were no duties placed on her shoulders, no dire need to follow orders and get the job done. For just about the first time in her life, she was utterly free of being told what to do, and she was reveling in it, quietly wrapping herself in it. Who was he to take that away?

The diner was small and vaguely reminiscent of the fifties, but thankfully not enough so as to be layered in tacky paraphernalia and stereotypical music. They ordered their burgers and began talking about something utterly mundane, utterly safe. Lullabies, of all things. Apparently Natasha had one stuck in her head, and was unable to get it out. As she commented on how interesting it was that songs detailing the same exact things could vary so much around the world, Clint searched her face, trying to find a hint as to how she was feeling. Her face looked drawn and tired, but it was an internal exhaustion, not something derived from a night's bad sleep.

She stopped talking suddenly, hands raised midway through a gesture.

"What," she asked. Clint blinked, frantically trying to remember what exactly she had just said.

"'What' what?" he asked, stalling for time.

"What're you looking at me like that for?" she explained, the look on her face saying that she was just about a hundred percent positive that he hadn't been listening to her.

"No reason, just…I dunno. I was just looking at you. It's kind of the polite thing to do when someone's speaking to you."

"Yeah, _okay,_" she said, flicking half a fry at him. Clint grinned, raising his hands in a half hearted attempt to block the fry as it sailed across the table, aimed at his neck. It bounced off the inside of his forearm, landing on the table in front of him.

"I was just thinking...it's good to see you looking so at ease," he said after a moment. Natasha watched him over her root beer, brows crinkled ever so slightly as she listened. She picked up her burger (small and cooked all the way through, because she couldn't eat partially uncooked meats and lost most of her appetite anyways), and took a bite from it, waiting, waiting.

"I don't know why, maybe it's because you're sick and you, well, you know, don't have very much riding on your shoulders." The words were tough to get out, because even though he knew that was the truth, every fiber of his being was begging for more time, praying that Natasha had even a few more minutes left with him than expected. At this point, Clint was willing to trade his very soul just to keep her heart beating.

"So I'm in my lame duck period?" she asked, a damned laugh in her voice. In her eyes though, Clint saw the aching sadness, the sadness that climbed into his heart and made his whole body hurt.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying," he said, rolling his eyes and taking another bite of his burger. Clint chewed, knowing that she wasn't fooled. He also knew that every other thought, and absolutely every breathe of his was dedicated to a fervent prayer, a constant stream that begged _anything_ to give Natasha to him, to just let him have her, even if it meant losing his sight or his fingers or even his entire arm. Before he had been desperately throwing out options when he had thought that he would give everything, just to save her life. Now it was a cold, ugly fact. Glancing around that diner, there wasn't anything or anyone in it that Clint would have regretted, had he been given the choice of saving Natasha or saving all of New York again.

They left the diner not long after, still talking. A layer of tension had come between them, caused by too many thoughts on the fact that Natasha had cancer and everything was changing because of it. After a few blocks and about fifteen seconds of hellish silence, Natasha began to speak.

"You know, you were right," she said softly, hands in her pockets and staring at the side walk while she spoke. He looked at her, feeling uncomfortable with the way she kept her eyes down. In any other circumstance, she would have looked up to face the world, scanning the buildings and people for potential attackers, possible danger cites. Now, though…it didn't matter.

"Okay, about what?" he asked, knowing that he would hate the answer.

"Me being in my 'lame duck period'."

"Okay, I never said that—"

"You might as well have. I'm not gone yet, but there isn't anything that I can do. I know I'd be out in Estonia somewhere, _helping_ people by actually doing my job, but I'm stuck here, in New York, eating burgers and slowly stripping my apartment of everything possible to save other people from having to do it when I'm dead."

"Don't say that, Tasha," he said, and it felt like he was choking because here he was, trying to find any way possible to save her when she had already given up.

"But it's the truth, Clint. Everyone else is probably just waiting for me to drop so they fill my position properly and then put you back out. I heard that Mockingbird was the top candidate."

Clint couldn't even speak at that. He stared at her, absolutely incredulous at the attitude she was taking. Did she really think that they were just standing around, biding their time until she died and the legal problems of replacing her would be gone? Did she think that _he_ was doing that? Only spending time with her because there wasn't much more he could do when his partner was permanently out for the count?

"Do you really think that, Natasha?" he asked, practically gritting his teeth. "Is that really the bullshit you've come up with in your head?"

She looked at him suddenly, afraid and vulnerable and with nothing left to gain or lose. Her eyebrows tilted up with pain and sadness, and he could see her collarbones as every muscle in her strained to keep from ripping apart.

"I don't know, Clint. It seems pretty likely."

He looked away, trying not to be angry, trying not to waste any time with her in being angry.

"No one wants that. No matter how incredible Bobbi is, she's not gonna come anywhere near you. No one can."

She was silent as they walked, and Clint had to concentrate to keep his hands from curling into fists.

"You mean that?"

Clint looked at her, unable to speak because that seemed like the stupidest damn thing she could have asked.

"Yes, Natasha. I mean it."

"And that's not just because of the fact that I'm always at risk of reverting to…how I was before you picked me up?"

He blinked, shocked that she had been worried over something like that. Guilt seeped through him as he finally understood what had caused her to think such awful things. She still thought that people only viewed her as the spy that had been trained by the lunatics of the Red Room, liable to tear off her mask and sabotage SHIELD before riding off into the blood soaked sunset. Granted, a few people did, but they were the ones that had never seen her in action, and never been present to witness her honest, heartfelt desire to help. And judging from what she'd just said, she thought that they only kept her around because she was a little bit more ruthless and far more likely to yield results from rather frowned upon measures.

"Never," he said, a lump in his throat. She nodded, the sun sparking off her hair but providing no warmth.

They continued walking for a few minutes, before she set a hand to his shoulder.

"Can we…can we stop?" she asked. Clint glanced down at her, surprised at the request. She sounded _tired_, like she hadn't been fit enough to take on a highly trained security just two weeks before.

"Uhm, yeah, sure," he said, stopping abruptly and glancing around to see if there was a subway station anywhere nearby. Thankfully there was one about two blocks down, and he guided her to it, setting his arm around her shoulders after a moment's hesitation. Natasha didn't seem to mind, leaning into his side heavily the farther they walked.

Clint found himself repeatedly glancing at her as they shuffled down the subway steps, pressed on all sides by other lunch goers on their way from eating out. Maybe it was just the soulless white lighting in the station, but to Clint, it looked like Natasha's skin was devoid of all healthy color, and the bags that had been apparently covered by makeup were starting to show as ugly grey smudges.

Once they were on the subway, Clint managed to wrangle Natasha a seat while he stood protectively over her, hanging onto the metal bar above their heads. Occasionally she would pass him a slight smile, but otherwise she examined the people in the car with them, eyes half lidded like it was too much effort to keep her eyes open all the way.

When had this begun to happen? Had Clint been so preoccupied in spending time with her that he neglected to notice when she started to lag? He knew her well enough to know that she would only ask to stop when she absolutely could not keep up anymore. How long had she been keeping up with his infamously quick pace, the entire time wishing that he would just slow down?

After about ten minutes she put a hand on his leg, making him look down, worried. Natasha just gave him one of those exhausted smiles and shook her head ever so slightly as if to tell him to stop fretting. Clint frowned at her for a moment, then reluctantly nodded and forced himself to think about something else.

By the time they got off the train, Clint felt a cloud of calm envelop him. It wasn't the good, steady kind, where he was confident in what would happen and accepted whatever happened, but the cold, detached kind that said that he couldn't do anything to prevent what was going to happen. No matter what he begged and promised and desired, Natasha would die and he would be left.

Clint walked Natasha to her door, waiting as she opened it. A part of him whispered that he better make the most of both their time and walk in with her, close the door behind him, but at the same time he knew that he would never be able to stand sitting with her, looking at her as she faded before his very eyes.

Before she walked in, Natasha looked at him. Again he felt his stomach stabbed with pain as she opened up before him in ways that she never had before. It was just another reminder that there was no point in playing the cold, hardened spy anymore. She could just be Natasha, without the barbs and the icebergs in her heart.

The question she asked with her eyes hung between them, and a part of him desperately wanted to say yes.

_Please Clint, will you stay? I don't want to be alone, I don't want to have to lay awake in my empty apartment with all of my regrets. Please, will you promise not to leave me?_

But it would have been a pie crust promise, because no matter what Clint did, he could never stay by her side. Everyone died alone.

Clint gave her a sad smile and gave her a hug, lightly kissing her forehead.

"Stay safe," he said, like she was hiding from the attacks of some extremist group with a vendetta and not some disease that would never go away.

"You too," she whispered, and from her, it was a reminder not to do anything stupid when his emotions got away from him.

Clint tossed a wave at her, forcing himself to look back as she watched him, still standing on her door mat and looking like a little girl lost in the city, unsure as to what she was supposed to do next.


	4. this sorrow clings to the bones

_**AN UGH THIS IS SO LATE APOLOGIES APOLOGIES. This chapter was kind of a nightmare to write, because everything was really slow to come every time I began writing, and the time I finally hit my stride, I would have to stop soon after :P Plus the last scene was just weird and awkward and that had to be rehashed a few times before I was ready to put it up.**_

_**Also, I'm really glad someone mentioned this in a review, but they said that first chapter Clint didn't feel like the same as third chapter Clint. That is true, and I'm really irked with myself that I haven't said this in an earlier chapter, but I'm trying to write each chapter using the lense of the different stages of the grief cycle. It might be overkill, as this is the first time I've ever tried writing a story like this, but I've been trying very hard to make it all flow believably. If the changes were too distracting, I apologize, but thank you for choosing to stick with me :)**_

**depression (après mois)**

The phone call came late, sometime around three. Clint gasped awake, scanning the room, grabbing his gun and springing out of bed in about two seconds. It took him a moment to realize that the sound wasn't someone trying to kill him, but his phone.

He picked it up, heart still screaming as he mumbled out a "Hello?"

There had been no caller's ID, but that didn't really bother him. This was his private line, no one but SHIELD agents had it.

"Hello, is this Clint Barton?"

"…Yes," he said, a lump starting to form in his throat. The voice was clinical, soft and tired. Not an agent's voice, but also not an attacker's. If anything, he would have hazarded a guess towards…

"Yes, this is Amelia Claussen, calling from the Intensive Care Unit in Lamp Rock Hospital…"

Clint closed his eyes, feeling sick. The woman, Amelia, paused. She sounded unsure, like she was used to people reacting poorly when she called them late at night, but not when they were just _silent._

"Uhm, sir, are you there?"

"Yes," he repeated, voice sounding so, so ragged. Things had been good. Days had passed, over a week, in which time he had been seeing Natasha continually. But the day before, they had gone for another walk, and she had requested that they finish it early. Clint hadn't thought much of it then, but now it was so telling that he wanted to puke.

He sat down on the bed, swallowing and struggling to get his voice back.

"What-what happened? Natasha, is she—?"

"She's fine, or, well, she is doing better."

"What happened?"

"We received a call from her about two hours ago, informing us that she had vomited blood, and then collapsed. We went right over, took her to the hospital. She's all sorted out now, but you were the only person listed as her contact."

"Really?" he asked, surprised. They, people like him and Natasha, didn't really _keep_ records like other people. The chance that Natasha had filled out all of the paperwork they had given her the first time she'd been in the hospital was slim to none.

"Well, no. She told us your number and name when we asked if there was anyone we needed to alert."

"I see," he said, running a hand over his face and through his hair. On the phone Amelia was giving what he guessed was her typical spiel. He listened for a few seconds, or rather, let her talk until he got his voice back.

"When can I see her?" he asked, voice just as soft and emotionless as hers had been. Inside, though, he could feel himself tipping back, back, back, testing the powers of balance he had learned when he was just a kid running around in the circus. Eventually gravity would win, and he would give way and fall. There would be no net to catch him, to prevent him from falling into a chasm he might never be able to climb out of.

The thought made him think of that first day in the hospital, when he'd first learned that Natasha was sick. He had gone in, unsure of everything, and yet she had thrown her arms around him like he was her anchor, he was her saving grace, like he could stand firm as everything else went to shit. It had seemed laughable then, but now it was just cruel and sickening.

"Family members and partners are welcome twenty-four hours a day, Mister Barton," Amelia continued, oblivious to the fact that on the other side of the phone, Clint was breaking down. That was probably why they explained all of this over the phone, he thought. The hospital's grunt workers didn't have to deal with the messy aspect of people that way.

"As long as the patient agrees, of course. You can come in any time, so long as Miss Romanoff doesn't say otherwise."

"Al-alright, thank you."

There was a pause, and then the professional tone fell out of the woman's voice.

"Don't worry, sir, I'm sure we'll work something out. We make sure to investigate all possibilities for recovery or medical aid at Lamp Rock, to ensure as much time for our patients to have with their loved ones as possible."

"She doesn't want it," he said absently. He didn't even know why he'd said it, but then, why not? It was three in the morning, Natasha was in the ICU, and he was on the phone with someone he'd never met and probably never would. The debate between him and Natasha being 'normal people' came back to him, causing a horribly wry smile to spread his lips. Perhaps he had been right, they weren't normal, because the situation he was in was the most normal thing fathomable and he was hardly able to keep breathing.

"Pardon me?"

"She doesn't want it," he said a bit louder, leaning back where he sat. "She doesn't want to go through chemo or look at the different possibilities to get her a little bit longer. She just wants it to end where it ends."

"…Well, you two can talk about that with one of our doctors, so you know all of the options, so just…keep that in mind."

"Alright," he said, wanting to give a dark little laugh at the worry and slight panic in her voice. No matter what new and inventive methods there were, Natasha would still refuse. She saw no point in living on borrowed time when she couldn't 'do any good' with it.

"Okay. If you have any more questions, feel free to call back and ask at any time."

"Yeah, I'll…I'll be sure to do that. Thanks," he grunted, then turned off the phone.

He put his head in his hands, wishing that he was somewhere else, anywhere else, anyone else. At the moment, Clint would trade all of the incredibly dangerous and stressful trips into the Middle East to derail covert extremist groups, just to pull him out of this situation, just to save Natasha.

She was in the ICU. She had puked blood.

The words echoed around in his head vaguely, to the point where they didn't even make sense anymore. After what felt like an eternity, Clint hauled himself up off the bed and stumbled around to find some clothes. Exhaustion was crashing back over him as he tugged on a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a jacket, and he felt that strange disconnect when everything was going wrong in a mission and he only had a few minutes to get the hell out of Dodge.

He vaguely thought about eating, but the thought repelled him and he decided to just stick with putting on his shoes.

In a few moments, he was out on the road, yellow lights looking just as tired as he was as they showed the dingy street he lived on. Clint stumbled to the subway, wishing he could stop thinking as he took a seat. He closed his eyes and listened to the dull roar, the soulless murmuring of the recorded woman warning them to stay back from the doors as they opened and closed.

The train let him out a few blocks from the hospital, but he supposed that was alright. It at least gave him a bit more time to get his head straight.

A terrifying numbness was settling over him, entirely different in stock when compared to the numb he had felt when he first found out about Natasha. This was empty, this was dead, this was him drowning in everything he couldn't control. Borderline apathy mixed with sorrow, the worst of combinations.

The woman at the front desk wore the typical uniform of exhaustion, but she had a bit more life to her as she doodled elaborately on a piece of notebook paper. She looked up as he walked over, giving a vague smile.

"Hello?"

"Uh, yeah, hi. I'm here to see Natasha Romanoff. She was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit earlier today?" He spoke with his eyes closed, because he couldn't stand to see her look of pity or worry, or worse yet, dismissal. People that worked in the medical field and assassins weren't too different, he found himself thinking, perhaps for the dozenth time since this whole thing started. There always came a point when seeing someone bleeding, hearing about someone dying, it just didn't bother them anymore. It was becoming a number, one that was easily lost track of.

"Romanoff…yeah, yeah, okay. Uhm, actually, only family members are allowed to see ICU patients."

"The woman that called, she said I could come to see her whenever." Clint rubbed his forehead, just wanting to get this over with.

"Only if you're her immediate family or partner."

"Yeah, that's it, I'm her partner," he mumbled, thinking that sounded exactly like he was some nut that walked in off the street with a half assed plan and a gun in his pocket. Hopefully the fact that he was dead on his feet and it wasn't even three in the morning would excuse it.

"Clint Barton, Natasha told them I was her contact."

The woman frowned, thumbing through a series of papers. Finally she found a bright pink sticky note with something scrawled on it, scanning it quickly.

"That does sound familiar…Clint Barton, you said?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Alright, then. You can go see her."

Clint headed off after she gave him a quick set of directions, his feet moving more because he knew that was what was supposed to happen, rather than him directing them to do so. He passed a couple of doctors on the way, but mostly the halls were white, too brightly lit and completely sterile of both germs and people.

When Clint reached her door, he took a breath before walking in. Natasha seemed to be dozing, but opened her eyes as he stepped in. When she saw him open his mouth to speak, he saw she pulled out a pair of earbuds.

"Hey there," he said, voice low and ragged.

"Hi," she said, smile tired and scared. "Guess you heard."

"That you vomited blood and collapsed? Yeah, that was…that was awful."

"I'm sorry," she said, but he could only think about how that was the most bizarre thing she could have said. Why was she apologizing because her entire body was withering away into nothing? Why did she feel guilty for simply trying to survive?

"How're you…how're you now?" Clint asked, voice about to break. She shrugged, looking out the window.

"Better."

Just hearing her voice made him sad. Natasha was so resigned, so defeated. Before it had been fine, but now, after having reality slammed into her face, it was breaking her down.

"You just gonna stand there?" she asked, half a tired laugh in her voice, because there they were again, stumbling through the steps from before, from this nightmare's beginning when he didn't know just how much it hurt to watch someone slowly, slowly die. She had cried then, had fallen to pieces in his hands when there was a disconnect and he could safely look into her eyes without wanting to fall to his knees and start screaming.

_I'm not meant for this,_ he found himself thinking, a continuous stream as the seconds ticked by, _I'm not meant to deal with this kind of problem. I shoot bows, I kill or don't kill people. I don't stand by as some other force, something I have no control over shoves its way through._

Like before, he didn't have an answer to her question. Well, he did, and that was he sure as hell didn't want to go wading through the sea of sorrow that stood between her and him. But he had to, that was his job. To soak himself in all of the undesirable tasks the world had to give him until his very hair was dripping with it.

The thought alone was exhausting, and he wanted to crawl all the way back to his apartment because he couldn't face something so futile.

It was only a few steps between him and Natasha's hospital bed, he had crossed high wires ten times as long back in the circus, back on missions where entire countries were on the line. This little gap was so small, but _oh,_ was itdifficult.

"What're you—what're you listening to?" he asked, and suddenly, every minute he had lost from that night's sleep caught up to him and made his voice rougher than sandpaper.

"Nothing," she said, hand settling gently over her smart phone, which the ear buds were plugged into. Clint managed a cheeky grin as he stepped over to her and picked it up, examining the screen.

It was some song with a vague yet incredibly odd name, but the interesting thing was that it was by Regina Spektor.

Natasha had made it clear that she had renounced practically all ties to her Russian heritage, with the one exception of a particular brand of vodka, because Natasha was serious about getting shit faced, _fast_. That, and Regina Spektor. The singer was one of Natasha's guilty pleasures, something that Clint was pretty sure he only knew about. Every time he caught her listening to the Russian artist, she would look incredibly embarrassed, but a little defiant as well, like she was challenging him on this one thing she was taking for herself, daring him to try and stop her.

Personally, Clint had a feeling that the preference for the woman's music came more out of sentimental bonds than anything. Both had grown up and then been forced to leave Russia for America due to political reasons. That combined with the surreal and often tragic content of the song meant Natasha was instantly drawn to it.

Now she looked up at him as if to say _'What? Don't I deserve to openly enjoy something now, when I'm dying?'_, and he just shrugged, handing the player back to her.

"Is it good?" he asked, and she shrugged back.

"It sounds like home," Natasha admitted, making his throat stop up. She would be needing a lot of reminders now, he thought, when everything was falling to hell.

Clint glanced around, then sat in the chair beside her bed.

"Glad to hear it," he sighed, resting his cheek on his fist.

They were silent in the relative darkness for a while, until finally her voice drifted to his ear.

"Are you going to stay?"

"Of course," he grunted, too tired to wonder why she would even have to ask.

"I just…if things get worse, I don't—I don't want to be alone. Not again."

Clint lifted his face from his hand, watching her. The light from her window showed that she was looking down at her phone, which was now dark. The edge of Natasha's face was still visible, though, and it looked scared. He swallowed, feeling a little bit worse at seeing even more of her walls fall down, seeing more of her soul laid out for all to see.

Wordlessly he stood up and gestured for her to move over. Natasha looked at him but edged closer to the window. He sat beside her once there was enough room, settled, then pulled out her closest ear bud and put it in his own ear. Clint closed his eyes as the light vocals washed over him, and felt Natasha rest her head on her shoulder.

"You sure that's allowed?" she asked, voice soft.

"By this point, who cares?" he mumbled, leaning his head back in preparation for drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Things were starting to blur for Clint. Sometimes he would spend the night with Natasha, and sometimes he would head home for a shitty night's sleep, tossing and turning and eventually staying up to watch shows that had originally aired in the mid 90s before getting about two hour's worth of sleep, getting a shower, getting dressed, then heading over to the hospital.

It was the weirdest thing for him, because every time he looked into the mirror, he got a bit worse, while Natasha looked the same. It was like he was the one dying, having everything inside of him slowly sucked away, not her.

He passed the time wandering the hospital, talking to her, watching her while she dozed, talking to the nurses. They all seemed to be touched by the fact that he was spending most of his time with her, probably figuring that he was using up all of his vacation time to sit in the tight quarters of a hospital that was more or less a tactical nightmare. While there were plenty of weapons lying about, there were also oodles and oodles of potential witnesses and victims, plus far too many cameras than he liked. But then, Clint reminded himself, Natasha wasn't here because she had been maimed in some mission, where plenty of enemies might want to swoop in and kill her on her gurney. She was there because she was sick, and would never get better.

That was certainly not one of the better thoughts he had during that time.

Few people came to see her, which wasn't really surprising. No one else in SHIELD other than Phil would have really cared about her enough to grab a card and a few awkward minutes worth of small talk to let her know he was thinking about her, which only left the Avengers. Thor wasn't about to jet down from Asgard as apparently his rainbow highway had been utterly destroyed (by him, no less. The irony of the whole thing hadn't managed to escape Clint), and Bruce was too anxious to really offer any comfort.

Clint wasn't sure if it was because of the ever present worry of being violently captured by the Hulkbusters or because Bruce knew he couldn't do anything, but it killed him inside. Either way, Natasha appreciated the visit, because Bruce was one of the few people that would hand over their lives gladly for another person. He felt absolutely terrible about the whole thing, that was clear in his melancholy dark eyes, but he was also upset that he couldn't do anything, despite his genius and vast understanding of how the body worked. He could turn himself into a giant superhuman green monster, frequently at will, even, but he couldn't figure out how to cure cancer, of any form, and that was probably worse than being a pariah for him, at least.

Steve had dropped by as well, gentle and awkward in his condolences, but Clint was pretty sure that his visit just depressed everyone, as they all kept thinking about how this was the first of his friends that he had actually been able to visit and talk with before they died in their hospital beds. Still, people was people and he even managed to get Natasha to smile a few times from the stories of his old war buddies, and once, she even laughed.

And then there was Tony.

As ever, he proved to be the anomaly of the situation. After sitting in on both Bruce and Steve's first two visit, Clint had made a point of not really being in the room with Natasha or her visitors whenever they came. He would stay long enough to not be considered rude (like that mattered anymore), then make an excuse and duck into the hall, go to the bathroom, anything, and then linger by the door to watch and listen, removing the guilt and worry and tedious and frustrating _emotions_ that cluttered the air around them (because 'he saw better at a distance'. More like he couldn't think worth a damn when he kept feeling every five seconds.) When Tony had visited, however, Clint had walked right into him.

He had gone for a walk around the hospital, because he couldn't breathe with all of that terror and silence building up between him and Natasha. Clint was just coming back from a long walk that wound through three different levels, wishing he could bury himself alive when he looked up and realized he was three feet away from Tony, on his way out of Natasha's room.

"Katniss, good to see you," Tony said, not even batting an eye. Pepper poked her head around his side, confused for a second, then lighting up with recognition and then darkening with sadness.

"Clint, hey, how are you doing?" she asked, voice somehow simultaneously chipper and sympathetic.

"I—uhm, fine?" he said, blinking and trying to prepare himself for the verbal and mental onslaught that was conversation with Tony Stark. Tony raised an eyebrow and leaned in slightly, rocking back and forth like a six year old on his extremely expensive sneakers, while Pepper somehow managed to radiate concern and sympathy without so much as shifting her feet.

"You…uhm, enjoy talking to Tasha?" he asked after a moment, clearing his throat. The words were out of place and uncomfortable, dropping in the air and just staying, because that wasn't the thing you asked the visitor of a cancer patient.

"It was nice. She seemed…more open, in a way. Like she wasn't straining to keep up the perfect façade," Pepper said. Clint nodded, eyes on the space between their shoes, wanting to say something, but finding the words clogging up in his lungs. As Pepper continued, Clint had the intense feeling that they had also come to see him, to see how he was holding up, if he would manage to leave this hospital with even a fragment of his old self left intact.

"Yeah, I guess crappy hospital food and not having real clothes kind of takes it out of a person," he said, shifting because he didn't really want to be there when Tony stopped analyzing and sprang into action.

"She seemed to perk up when we walked in, though."

"Because I always put a smile on her face," Tony said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, I guess anyone at all's a plus at this point," Clint said, wondering if he could pointedly start edging away from the couple with their perfect suits and combed hair and eyes that said they had at least a bit of control over their lives, so unlike him. He, who had bags under his eyes that seemed to be carved out of purple alabaster, somehow both dark and unhealthy and emanating a sickly pallor, and clothes that he was pretty sure he had already worn at least once this week, and the bandage around his fingers from where he had lashed out at his apartment and of course managed to jam a finger. They were just visitors to this nightmare that he could hardly keep his head above.

Tony nodded, and Clint could just _see_ the words mounting and shoving at each other, trying to break loose and let a witty and sarcastic and painful display of his genius loose, but he was keeping it all in, just for Clint, because anything more and Clint might just pass out right there. Or maybe because in hand to hand combat Tony knew that Clint could stomp his ass and wasn't ready to revisit what being maimed felt like. But hey, Clint liked to keep things positive.

"How have you been holding up?" Pepper finally asked, cutting through what Clint realized had been a more than awkward silence. He still found himself pausing, though, thinking that this was the first damn time that anyone had asked, and he really had no idea how to respond.

Clint shrugged, glancing around, feeling like he had been shoved under a spot light. There was no one else in the hall with them, no nurses, no doctors, no janitors to tame Pepper and Tony's words, keep them from saying something that may just make him break apart. He took a breath, telling himself to grow a pair and answer the damn question.

"Uhm, okay, I guess. At first it didn't really click, and then I was pissed and wasted a good long time dicking around with my emotions, and now…I dunno," he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"The grieving cycle. You're mourning her before she's even dead," Tony said, and Clint shot him a look.

"Thanks, Tin Man, I hadn't figured that one out yet."

Tony clenched his teeth, and Clint was suddenly aware of Pepper moving closer, as if to get between the two incase they were going to come to blows.

"What I meant," Tony began, "was that you shouldn't be…_upset_ before you have to. Try enjoying…what time you have left. Because you're going to end up missing her no matter what, and it's better to be left with something kind of likeable instead of shit."

Clint stared at Tony, forced himself to blink, to pull away from what he was feeling, to close all of that mess off and simply accept what he was being told.

"I…thank you," he said, trying to make himself mean it. "I, uh, just need to get to the point where I don't feel like I'm deteriorating before I try doing the tough stuff."

"Well…you don't have to do it by yourself," Pepper said, putting a hand on his arm. Clint nodded and pressed his hand against his brow as if shielding his eyes from the sun. He bit back the words demanding _who else did he have other than Natasha?_, because despite all that one big family bullshit that was tossed around, the Avengers were a pack of dogs that were riled up by Fury and sent in a desired direction, and most of them were dumb enough to think that it was their own decision to do so. They weren't soldiers, they weren't assassins, they were the all out over kill, sent in when heavy damage was unavoidable and a big stick policy was the best move.

But he couldn't say that. Tony had already done him the favor of not snapping out the cutting words that were all primed in his head because Clint was miserable enough already, at the least he could do the same.

"Thanks," he squeezed out, the word sad and flat. "Thanks, Pepper, I'll…I'll try to remember that."

"Okay, well, take care of yourself," she said, voice so soft and understanding as she walked away.

"Yeah. We don't need you dropping dead of stress and depression. One funeral is enough," Tony said, putting his hand on Clint's shoulder as he followed after Pepper.


End file.
